


After Haven

by chameleontattoos



Series: The Catriona Cousland Chronicles [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Post-Dragon Age: Origins Quest - The Urn of Sacred Ashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 20:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18395741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleontattoos/pseuds/chameleontattoos
Summary: After weeks of slogging around Ferelden, fixing things and collecting other things, Catriona finally had a moment to rest. She should have been sleeping, but she sat by the fire and thought about her family instead.





	After Haven

Catriona sat staring into the fire long after the others had gone to their tents.

That wasn't to say she wasn’t tired. She was _exhausted_. Curing the arl had been of such vital importance that they'd hardly dared let their heels cool before breaking camp each morning.

Only once they had delivered Andraste's ashes to Redcliffe Keep and seen the arl start to recover did she feel comfortable enough – able at all, really – to sit down and just _rest_. The fate of Ferelden was at stake, as utterly absurd as that was. The fate of _all Ferelden_.

Catriona had been harbouring no small amount of fear that the prophetess' relic wouldn't even _be_ there by the time they reached it. And then where would they be? Maker, it didn’t even bear thinking about. Without restoring Eamon, there would have been next to no hope of them being allowed anywhere _near_ the Landsmeet, never mind being given the chance to exonerate themselves of Loghain’s charges of treason and say their piece.

But they’d done it. One nigh-insurmountable task completed, too many more yet to undertake.

Two, she reminded herself. She raised her eyes to the new tent pitched north of the campfire, where the mage Wynne slept. Two nigh-insurmountable tasks. Although they certainly felt like the one large mess to be untangled. Redcliffe, with her walking undead. Then to the Circle Tower to seek help for Arl Eamon’s son. All the way to the top of said tower to put the mages to rights. Back to Redcliffe. Off to find Brother Genitivi in Denerim, then Haven to locate the Urn. Then back again to Redcliffe.

Wait, did Haven count as a third?

Catriona groaned, putting her face in her hands. “Andraste preserve me, this is too much.”

That wasn’t even counting the veritable theatre production that the return journey to Redcliffe – the one after the Circle – had made of itself. Catriona was certainly surprised to learn that she and Alistair were worth sending assassins after. Zevran seemed to think himself rather more of a peacock than a Crow, but that was neither here nor there. She had more pressing concerns than the prancing of an elven knife-for-hire; it was those concerns, in fact, that kept her from her night’s rest.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the shade that she had seen at Haven.

Catriona had told the Guardian that she didn't think she had abandoned her father and her mother to certain death at Arl Howe's hands. She believed that.

She _hadn't_ abandoned them. Abandonment implied that she’d left them behind because she didn’t want them; that she didn’t need them. But she’d _tried_ to get them to come with her. They had stayed of their own free will to face the enemy’s blades. She would have spent longer arguing the point with them, had she the time. But if Catriona hadn’t run, Fergus would almost certainly have returned home to chaos and a sword through his gut – If not be cut down by Howe’s fighters in the field. While Fergus lived, he was the heir to all of their family’s holdings. She had to do what she could to protect him.

She still didn't know where he was. She might have been the last one left of her house. It was a sobering thought, and one that made her feel very alone even among such company as she'd recruited thus far.

So to hear her father’s voice again, and to see his face as it had been in life, his finery unsullied by blood, had hurt as much as it had helped.

He'd told her that he knew how she missed him. And he was right, as always. She'd had to put it away for later, up until that point. There were other things that needed her attention as the apparent leader of… Whatever _this_ was. But she did miss him sorely, and her mother. And Fergus, and poor Oriana and little Oren.

She was sure that she had shed a tear when Father's spirit called her _pup,_ that familiar endearment, although the others had been kind enough not to comment.

Andraste’s mercy, she was so tired. _So tired_. She would never in her maddest fantasies have asked for any of this. At least she wasn't dead yet. Others hadn't been so lucky. Duncan, Niall, King Cailan himself, Maker watch over them all. She'd heard of the loss of Lothering to the darkspawn. Hopefully most of the remaining villagers had sought refuge elsewhere in time.

The amulet rested in her lap, chain swinging freely over the side of her thigh. Taking it in hand, she turned it over in her fingers, passing her thumb over the front face with its Chantry symbol. Its weight in her hand was a comfort, its presence a reminder of the trials she and her companions had faced to get this far. She wrapped the chain around her palm, feeling grounded by the slight squeeze.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Catriona briefly turned her head in acknowledgement of Alistair’s timely arrival. It was quite late, but she wasn’t surprised to see him still awake. She knew all too well the dreams that he had to be avoiding.

“Just wondering how much more we'll have to leave behind before all of this sorry business is finished.” She sighed, stretching her back.

Alistair sat beside her on the ground, holding his hands out for the fire to warm his palms. “Not too much, I hope,” he murmured.

Razor had been keeping her company, his warm bulk pressed against her back. He sat up and whined, resting his huge canine head on her shoulder. Catriona smiled, reaching up and smoothing her hand over his ear. “I wouldn't dream of leaving _you_ behind, you big baby.”

The mabari _whuffed_ softly, circling around and settling his chin on her thigh.

There was silence between them for a few moments before Alistair spoke up again. “I hope you don't mind me asking – I don't mean to pry.”

Catriona had a feeling she knew what the question would be. As for whether she'd be able to put forward an answer without choking on her own tongue… “What is it?”

“You've been awfully quiet since we came down from the highlands, is all.” Alistair fidgeted his hands in his lap. “I just wanted to check if you're alright. After the Gauntlet. All that ghost stuff, it really –” He spun a finger by his temple, whistling. “Does your head in, doesn’t it? So, are you? Alright?”

“No,” she said. “I'm not.” Razor pushed his cold nose into her palm. “I… had been doing my utmost to avoid thinking about Highever. It's easier to breathe that way.” She smoothed her hand over his ears again, scratching the top of his head. She would _not_ cry.

“That must have been very hard for you.” Alistair said sympathetically. It made Catriona realise that they really hadn’t spoken about what had happened to _her_ that had set her on this path. Her only concern had been making sure that Alistair was alright; his brothers in arms had all been lost at Ostagar, after all, and them like a second family to him. He might have lost the last of those he considered something like family had they not been able to secure Redcliffe against the undead and the demon. And find the Urn on top of that. The blood of the covenant, thicker than the water of the womb and all. Besides, and although Alistair himself refused to think about it, her fellow Warden _was_ technically the heir to the throne of Ferelden by right of birth. He had to be looked after, whether or not he intended to wear the crown.

“It was. It still is. I didn’t want to leave them, but… I had to.” She glared into the fire, mentally cursing Arl Howe for his duplicity. “We didn’t know if Fergus lived. I might have been the last living member of my family. I had to get away.” At Alistair’s questioning look, she clarified, “My brother, Fergus. Elder. His wife and son were killed in the attack.” She pursed her lips against their persistent quivering. Poor, inquisitive little Oren.

“You _can_ cry, you know.” Alistair said hesitantly. “What you went through, it – nobody would think any less of you, least of all me.” Razor whined again, bumping her hand with his nose. “Nor your great lump of a hound, I’m sure.” The mabari barked softly and Alistair ventured a small smile, which Catriona returned despite herself.

She sighed. It sounded a little bit wet to her ears, but she ignored it. “Seeing father again, it – I meant what I said to the Guardian, but my parents still _died_. They’re still gone. And there’s been this hollow feeling in my chest since that day. I’d gotten quite good at pretending it wasn’t there, until…” She felt a tear well up and trickle down her cheek. “Until he was standing there. Right in front of me. And I’ll never know if that was really him, or if it was just the Temple –” She choked to a stop. Razor sat up, and she pressed her forehead to his furry shoulder.

“For what it’s worth.” Alistair said after a long pause, during which both of them pretended Catriona wasn’t barely holding herself together. “I – I think it was. What was it he called you?”

“Pup,” she answered.

“Yes, that. I don’t – I mean, I’m hardly an expert on the Fade, am I? But I don’t think a random spirit would know that. Not one that showed itself outside the Fade, anyway.”

Alistair mentioning the Fade recalled the memory of Duncan-That-Wasn’t, conjured by the sloth demon to convince her to stay. He’d almost had her fooled, in truth. They hadn’t _seen_ Duncan fall. He might well have survived. They might have blacked out in the Circle Tower, and when they came to everything was back to normal. Or maybe everything once she’d drunk from the Chalice had been one long hallucination. She had considered it. The fuzziness in her head had made it possible to accept pretty much anything as truth. But it had felt wrong, in the end, and so the fantasy couldn’t last. Reality felt more solid. She knew what was real.

“Did I ever tell you that I saw Duncan? In the Fade?”

Alistair’s brow creased. “You didn’t, no. Duncan? Not your family?”

She shook her head.

“I wonder why that is,” her companion mused. His eyes clouded over for a moment; she supposed he must be thinking of his own Fade-dream, with Goldanna and her family. What was it that had made the sloth demon give Catriona a vision of the Commander of the Grey, and Alistair a dream of a family he had no reason still to think of? It seemed rather backward.

“I don’t know.” Catriona said, although by his lack of reaction it seemed like he hadn’t really been looking for an answer. “I suppose the Fade knows things that the rest of us don’t.”

“Hm,” was all Alistair said in response.

The crackling of the fire filled another silence.

“What – I mean, obviously it wasn’t the real Duncan, nothing he said really matters, but – What did he say? To you?” Alistair’s honey-coloured eyes were earnest and hopeful.

Catriona shrugged. “Nothing worthy of note,” she replied, not missing how Alistair’s shoulders sagged just that little bit. “Just the demon trying to convince me that things hadn’t gone ass over teakettle at Ostagar.”

Alistair snorted quietly. “Since when do you say _ass?_ ”

“I must have picked it up from our friend the Crow,” she teased.

“And teakettle?”

She nudged him hard enough that he tipped over slightly and had to right himself, snickering. “I know what a teakettle is, you _ass_.”

“My apologies, Lady Cousland.” Alistair froze, his brain catching up to his mouth. He winced. “Sorry.”

Catriona waved it away. “It’s fine.” She could feel his gaze on the side of her face as she stared into the fire. She could almost see shapes in it, she’d been looking at it for that long. “You know… If the demon had given me my family, I’m not sure I would have bothered trying to wake up.” She looked down at the amulet. “Even if it felt… wrong.”

It would be a nice dream to live in, for however long she was having it. Would she cease to exist when the sloth demon devoured her? She remembered seeing Niall's slowly wasting form in the room once she had freed herself and her companions from the Fade. That likely would have been her fate. Niall had sounded resigned to what was happening, and convinced that once his body was dead, his Fade-self would cease to exist.

That didn’t sound like a terrible way to go. There were more painful possible deaths out there.

“Call me selfish, but I’m glad it messed that up.” Alistair murmured, poking the embers along the periphery of the campfire with a stick. “None of the rest of us would have been able to get out, if it hadn’t been for you. And even if we had, none of us is half the leader you are.”

“Not even you?”

“Not even me.” Alistair shrugged. “Having the blood of a king doesn’t give me any special leader instincts. I’m rubbish at giving orders. We need you.”

His fiddling dislodged a branch from its place in the burning pile. They both startled when it shifted, sending up sparks. “Maker, that gave me a heart attack!” He exclaimed, hand on his chest.

“You look like a frightened Chantry mother.” Catriona snorted, pretending the sudden fright hadn’t kicked her own heartbeat up a notch. She could always count on Alistair to redirect her thoughts and make her feel better, even when he did it by accident. “Oh, merciful Andraste, please guard my gentle soul against the perils of burning firewood,” she said, placing one hand over her heart and the other against her forehead and pretending to swoon. “My poor body cannot take the strain…”

“Shut up.” Alistair rolled his eyes good-naturedly, giving her a light shove. She bumped against the solid wall of mabari sitting next to her with a grin.

Razor, for his part, just lolled his tongue out and swiped the side of her head. Then he yawned, getting to his feet and shaking himself before skirting around the fire and parking himself outside her tent.

“I think my nursemaid is trying to tell me that it’s naptime.” Catriona laughed quietly.

“It is way past a sensible person’s bedtime.” Alistair observed. He shuffled himself around until he could stand, offering her a hand. “He has the right idea.”

Catriona took his offered hand to pull herself upright, using it to steady herself on tired legs before she let go. “He might, at that.” She stifled a yawn.

“There, see?” Alistair pointed out, rather unnecessarily. “You’re in dire need of a good night’s sleep. Especially after, well, _everything_.”

“Don’t I know it.” She sighed. It turned into another barely-suppressed yawn. “Well, goodnight then.”

“‘Night. Oh, don’t worry about taking your turn at watch. I’ll get the assassin to cover it for you.” Alistair jerked a thumb toward Zevran’s tent. “Take advantage of how he’s still falling over himself to make sure you like him enough not to send him home.”

This time she couldn’t hold back the yawn. “He is _not_ ,” she mumbled.

“Is too. Go to bed.” Alistair grinned smugly. “Senior Warden’s orders.”

Catriona dropped a mocking curtsey just to spite him. “Yes, ser.”

Razor nosed into the tent once she’d gotten herself settled among her blankets. He flopped down beside her and briefly touched his tongue to her cheek before putting his head on his paws.

“Goodnight to you too, laddie.” She murmured, giving him a final scratch behind the ears. “Here’s hoping we don’t get set upon by bandits for at least the next day, hm?”

Her companion _wuffed_ quietly. The sound followed her down into a deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
